


Nightingale

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Family, Guilt, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-12 12:49:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18446909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: The guilt doesn't go away, no matter how hard Arthur works himself, no matter how close to the edge he stands. It doesn't help that no one seems to notice.





	1. Chapter 1

“I see I’m boring you.” 

Truthfully, Arthur had completely forgotten Dutch was talking. He hadn’t even realized he’d yawned until the irritated retort yanked him back to the world of the living, Dutch’s tent spinning dangerously when Arthur snapped his head up, meeting the cold eyes that watched him. 

“No,” Arthur said, eyes watering as he forced back another yawn. “Sorry, Dutch, I’m listening.” 

“What did I  _ say?”  _

Arthur shakily realized that he didn’t know, face heating up in shame. He had no idea what they’d even been talking about before he involuntarily faded out, couldn’t even remember stepping into Dutch’s tent.

“You might want to think about getting more sleep,” the other man scoffed. Arthur wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like he was being given much choice, but Dutch was talking again before he had the chance. “God knows you have the time with how little you do around here.” 

It stung, Arthur suddenly feeling every single ache in his muscles from the strain of working non-stop for days at a time.

“That’s not--” 

“So if you’d rather stay back and  _ nap,  _ or whatever the hell it is you do, be my guest. Or you can get out and make us some money so we can get hell out of this dump.” 

Arthur  _ did  _ want to stay back and get his first real night of sleep in far too long. He’d managed less than an hour in the past five days, only once letting himself drift off beside the campfire nearly two days ago after his last hunting trip. 

Miss Grimshaw had given him an earful for that, practically dragging him to his feet and shoving him toward an axe and a pile of awaiting logs. He’d obeyed without question, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands as he worked. 

Dutch was watching him, cocky and expectant, like he’d just finished scolding a child, like he knew the effect his words had. Arthur knew he didn’t, all too aware Dutch had every excuse to lash out, but he couldn’t stop the flash of resentment. 

“Jesus, Dutch,” he muttered, mouth moving before he could stop himself, and he saw something flicker in the other man’s eyes. 

“Something you want to say?” 

Arthur wanted to  _ scream.  _ He wanted to tell Dutch to go check the damn box he claimed to care so much about, or ask Pearson who’d brought the supplies for the last two meals Arthur hadn’t gotten a chance to eat. 

He swallowed, throat and chest feeling tight. His eyes were stinging unbearably, worsening each time he blinked, hating the tears threatening to spill out and shatter his carefully crafted patience. 

But he knew better. He didn’t need a bruised jaw on top of bruised pride. Dutch was blind to anyone’s stress but his own, and he had every right to be, as much as it hurt. 

“No,” Arthur said, the safest approach, now desperate to get this over with and get out of the suddenly suffocating tent. “What do you want me to do?” 

“I  _ need  _ you,” Dutch said, slow, and Arthur found himself digging his nails into his palm. “To get yourself together, son. We need you sharp.” 

If they wanted him sharp, they needed to let him  _ sleep.  _ But he said nothing, only nodded silently, hoping Dutch would be satisfied and leave him alone. 

“Like I told you before,” he said, dragging out each word, Arthur certain the older man was just testing his patience. “Apparently there’s an unguarded stagecoach leaving Strawberry at nightfall. I assume you know what to do from there?” 

Arthur nodded again, clenching his jaw until it ached to keep himself from yawning again. “You want me to go alone?” 

“Why, you need someone to hold your hand?” It might have been Dutch’s poor attempt in lightening the mood, or maybe he really was just trying to make Arthur feel worse. It certainly wasn’t doing anything to improve his spiraling temper. “It’s just a stagecoach. I think you can handle it.” 

Arthur wasn’t sure he could handle walking in a straight line, but he knew better than to risk arguing with Dutch when he was like this, too caught up in what had to be done to see what was right in front of him. 

A part of Arthur wanted to tell Dutch to rob the damn stagecoach himself, but he knew it was just his mind’s useless attempt at fighting against the thought of another job. Everyone was stressed, he wasn’t the only one not getting enough sleep. Dutch was right, he couldn’t afford to slack off. He could handle one more day. 

“Sure, Dutch,” he said, already backing up towards the exit, the spacious tent feeling tight and smothering. 

“And when you’re done,” Dutch called, making Arthur freeze. “I need you to help Strauss with some of his work.” 

Arthur’s whole body protested, muscles tightening painfully, head beginning to spin. Because he knew his body’s limits, and he knew he couldn’t. There was no way he could possibly of any use to anyone right now, especially after another night of working. 

“I don’t know if I should--” he started, but Dutch raised an eyebrow, waiting for the excuse, and Arthur felt an almost crippling guilt wash over him. “I’ll...I’ll talk to him.” 

Dutch nodded, lowering himself to the crate beside his cot, reaching for his book. “Thank you, son.” 

Arthur was sure he would pass out right there and then, his head too heavy on his aching shoulders, a new headache sprouting to life behind his eyes. He wondered if Dutch would care, if anyone would, or if he’d just be woken up again and mercilessly thrown into more work. 

Dutch didn’t seem to notice when Arthur swayed, reaching out a hand to steady himself, screwing his eyes shut to try and combat the dizziness. 

“Arthur?” 

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ he snapped, forcing his eyes open, everything a blur of light and color. Dutch was watching him, brow furrowed, curious. “It’s nothing.” 

“It better be nothing,” Dutch said, watching as Arthur forced his legs to carry him the rest of the way across the tent. “I need you strong, son.” 

He sounded angry, threatening, but Arthur was almost sure it was just his overworked mind turning delirious. But Dutch was right. He couldn’t be the only one working himself this hard. Right now, everyone was vital, and Arthur couldn’t afford to fall behind. 

And he couldn’t expect Dutch to notice everything, not with the weight on his shoulders, his mind focused on things far more important than Arthur missing a few nights of sleep. 

“Hey, Morgan!” 

Arthur had to fight against a groan, able to recognize the taunt laced in Bill’s tone without looking up. He knew what was coming, having no doubt Mary-Beth and Tilly had already told the entire camp. 

“You go see that girl yet?” Bill asked. Arthur clenched his jaw, wishing he could just disappear, knowing he should just walk away. “What was her name? Mary?”

“Yes.” But Arthur was frozen in place, carefully turning to see Bill and Micah resting by the campfire-something Arthur hadn’t had time to do in days-knowing smiles plastered on their smug faces. “Why?”

Micah just shrugged, and Arthur wasn’t sure how long he could refrain from striking him. “Just curious, cowpoke. She take you back yet?” 

Bill laughed, his breaths turning to giddy wheezes, and Arthur suddenly realized that the bastards were  _ drunk,  _ and for a moment he wondered why he was working so hard to keep these people alive. 

“That’s too bad, Morgan,” Bill said, words slurring together, taking another swig from his bottle. “Can’t say I blame her. You know, maybe if you weren’t so  _ sad  _ and angry all the time.” 

“And always in that damn journal of yours,” Micah adds with a smirk. “You ever gonna let us read that thing, princess?” 

It was stupid, drunk slurs and insults thrown out by two angry men to combat their own stress and exhaustion. In the morning, neither of them would remember what they’d said, and any other day it wouldn’t matter. 

But every little thing seemed to strike him like a knife lately, cruel words like a punch to the gut, his hazy mind suddenly only able to focus on the hurt and anger brought from Mary turning him away once again. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d been starting forward, fists clenched, until something grabbed his arm and pulled him back, dragging him from the drunk laughter. 

“Will you pull yourself together?” The voice was distant, irritated and exasperated, and Arthur had to blink a few times before he recognized Hosea dragging him towards the hitching posts. 

“I wasn’t--” 

“I saw you, Arthur,” Hosea snapped, finally letting go and shoving him forward, Arthur stumbling against the grass. “They’re drunk fools.  _ Ignore  _ them. You’re supposed to be working a job.” 

“Hosea--” 

“We can’t be fighting each other,” Hosea said. “Especially not now. Not over some stupid argument. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you  _ know  _ that.” 

"Arthur swallowed against the lump in his throat that refused to go away, feeling his frustration steadily rise. If anyone would listen to him, help him, it was Hosea. 

“I--I don’t know if I can--” 

"Arthur, I don’t have time to argue with you,” Hosea said curtly, barely hearing him, already turning to his own horse. “You’re not the only one who’s stressed, son. I’m heading into town to try and make us some money. I suggest you do the same.”

He wasn’t angry, not like Dutch had been, but his words were only reawakening the suffocating guilt Arthur couldn’t get rid of. 

So he just nodded, saying nothing as Hosea mounted his horse without sparing him another glance, disappearing into the brush before Arthur could work up the courage to call out. 

He felt dizzy, fumbling with the reins around the fence, climbing into the saddle taking longer than it should have. He pressed a hand against his temple again, trying to fight against the worsening headache that had been rising over the past few never-ending days.

Arthur shook his head, pulling away and veering to the path leading to town. Dutch’s words echoed in his mind, and he forced himself to sit up straight, to clear his head and focus. 

He didn’t have a right to complain, to be dramatic and cause everyone more problems. Dutch couldn’t be getting any more sleep than he was, still standing with the weight of so many lives on his back. He was relying on Arthur, counting on him to help keep the gang alive and strong. 

He tried to ignore the way the trees all blended into an indecipherable shape around him, blurred and colorless, darkening when his eyes threatened to slip shut. Keeping them open hurt, his head pounding relentlessly, but he just pushed his horse faster, breathing in the cold breeze against his face. 

It was just one more night. Two, depending on what Strauss needed. They’d have to let him sleep after this, after he’d done something they actually noticed. 

Arthur pulled his head from his aching shoulders and rode forward, silently praying he would be awake enough to hold a gun. 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time a simple robbery had gone the way it was supposed to. Drivers were always armed, expectant and observant, and coaches always seemed to be guarded. 

But this time had been Arthur’s own fault, his stupidity and carelessness. He should have realized the job was destined to go wrong the second he began hearing things that weren’t there.  

It had just been little things, whispering voices in the trees, all of them familiar, none of them recognizable. He thought he heard Dutch at one point, taunting and disappointed, and Arthur pushed his horse faster, the voice solidifying the guilt he felt at wanting-more than anything-to turn back. 

He’d made it to the path leading to Strawberry moments after the sky had faded to an empty black, cloudless and warm, but for the first time Arthur couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the country’s beauty. He just wanted to get this done, get enough money to convince someone to let him have a few hours to himself.

Arthur doubted it would do much good. Whatever he got from this job would be nothing compared to what he’d already brought in, and nobody had bothered to notice any of it. It still wouldn’t be close to what they needed, and he knew there would be no opportunity to rest for long. 

It had looked easy enough, the stagecoach riding alone through the quiet roads, the driver fidgety and anxious, presumably alone. Arthur pulled up his bandana, trying in vain to get his fingers to stop twitching, and started forward with his gun in the air. 

He’d called out for the man to stop, his voice hoarse and words slurred, but the coach had been pulled to a halt almost immediately, the driver throwing up his hands as Arthur dismounted. 

“Don’t try anything stupid--” 

“Oh, I-I won’t sir,” the man promised, frozen and trembling, eyes never leaving the outlaw. “It’s all in the back, s-sir. Take it, just don’t shoot. Please, I have a wife and--” 

“Shut up,” Arthur snapped, but he couldn’t help the relieved smile forming behind his bandana. Maybe he’d finally gotten lucky. 

He really should have known better. 

Arthur had heard the horses in the distance long before they’d been close enough to be an immediate threat, but he’d ignored it, filed it as another harmless hallucination, and kept working. 

He found the lockbox where the man promised it would be, pulling his lockpick out of his satchel, trying to reign in his frustration when his hands were shaking too much to get a steady grip. 

Arthur’s chest felt tight, waves of heat washing over him as he squeezed the tool in a pathetic grip and did all he could to break through the lock. He should be long gone by now, but simply missing a few nights of sleep had rendered him completely useless. 

“Uh, s-sir?” 

“I  _ told you,”  _ Arthur growled, headache worsening with each failed attempt. At the moment, he didn’t trust himself not to lose control and take his frustration out on an innocent. “To stay  _ quiet.”  _

“But--but are they with you?” 

Arthur finally looked up, squinting to see past his unfocused vision, heart sinking when he saw three men riding right towards them. They weren’t hallucinations, and Arthur wasn’t stupid enough to think he could survive a shootout in his current state. 

Cursing under his breath, he left the stagecoach and its money behind, his knees threatening to give out from under him as he raced to his horse, barely able to make it back into his saddle, the grassy hills around him beginning to spin faster and faster. 

He felt almost numb, detached and distant as he pulled the reins and turned back on the path he’d come from, his thoughts only on returning home. The money from the job wasn’t worth dying for, despite how nice it would have been to just lay back and close his eyes...

“Hey!” one of the robbers called, and Arthur’s blood ran cold. “Ain’t that Dutch’s boy?” 

_ Shit.  _ The O’driscolls seemed to be multiplying, Colm’s men growing in numbers every time they let their guard down, always appearing at the worst possible times. 

Arthur was already taking off down the path, pushing his horse to move faster, ignoring the animal’s grunts of protest. The sudden surge of adrenaline managed to wake him up a bit, his mind clearing just enough for Arthur to recognize the daunting fact that he had no plan. 

He was instinctually heading in the direction of camp, running on the blind hope that he’d be able to lose his pursuers and not lead them back to Horseshoe Overlook. But if he managed to make it back in one piece, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to look Dutch in the eye. With the older man’s current mood, a failed robbery attempt was the last thing he wanted to hear about, especially if Arthur hadn’t even tried defending himself.  

But he didn’t have any other choice. Or, maybe he’d get shot and wouldn’t have to deal with it. 

He could hear the men behind him, the thundering of their horses, the bullets flying from their guns as they closed in. It was all fading away, Arthur only able to hear his own, panicked breathing. He lost sight of the road, lost his sense of direction. 

Arthur forced himself to keep his eyes open, blinking, and he idly thought he was near Valentine, recognizing the forest in the distance. He thought he might have fallen asleep without realizing, traveling the distance between the two towns seeming to take no time at all, and Arthur veered sharply into the trees, gunshots echoing behind him. 

Branches brushed past his face, scratching and poking, Arthur’s horse moving too fast for him to see where he was going. He could only hope the O’driscolls were just as lost as he was, that the men would give up and turn around so he could breathe and figure out what to do. 

He must have blacked out again, because the next time he opened his eyes he wasn’t in his saddle, and the ground was rushing up to greet him. 

Arthur landed on his side, hard, the air knocked out of his lungs and his vision tunneling, hearing himself cry out. He fought to sit up, feeling like his skull was being ripped in half, barely possessing the strength to lift his hand. 

But he could hear the O’driscolls nearing, their shouts lost on ringing ears, and his horse was nowhere in sight. Arthur pulled himself forward, muscles screaming in protest, managing to duck behind a rock and rip his gun from his holster just as more shots rang out. 

His hands were shaking, wracked with violent tremors, Arthur feeling like a child as he struggled to get a proper grip on the weapon. Everything was still blurry, dark spots dancing around the edge of his vision, and in a moment of panic, Arthur wondered if this was how he was going to die. 

He took a breath, pushed his discomfort to the back of his cloudy mind, and started firing. 

He couldn’t aim, not nearly as well as he usually could, his shots frantic and almost random, shooting blindly at anything that moved. Arthur was fairly sure he’d hit someone at least once, hearing a strangled scream, but the shooting didn’t stop, the forest never growing silent. 

If his brain had been just a bit more awake, he would have heard the approaching footsteps long before the O’driscoll made it to the rock. 

The man was grinning, raising and cocking his shotgun, but by some miracle Arthur was faster, his failing body running on pure adrenaline. He fired three times into the man’s stomach, the shotgun clattering to the forest floor as the man dropped, landing on his face in the dirt, unmoving. 

 Arthur risked a glance over his cover, swallowing against the nausea as everything slowly stopped spinning. His eyes landed on the bloody corpse of the second O’driscoll, and he slowly let out a shaky breath. 

But that still left the third man, and Arthur ducked behind the rock again as another shot fired from the treeline. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep fighting. 

“Your friends are dead, you fool!” He paused to squeeze his eyes shut and adjust his loosening hold on the weapon, the simple callout leaving him breathless. “Go run back to Colm!” 

O’driscolls were cowards, strengthened only by their numbers, and it didn’t take long before the gunshots gradually died down, and Arthur could make out the last man turning his back and sprinting through the trees. 

Arthur left his cover and aimed, the barrel of the gun pointed at the back of the fleeing O’driscoll’s skull. But he couldn’t fire, his hand suddenly refusing to move, everything seeming to shut down at once, and Arthur found himself crashing to his knees, head pounding violently, his whole body trembling. 

He closed his eyes, dropping the gun and running his hands through his hair, his breathing growing heavy as he struggled to block out the pain. It almost felt like he was floating, like he was watching himself from the air, slowly drifting farther and farther away. 

Arthur wanted nothing more than to lay back against the dirt and keep his eyes closed forever, let himself slip away into nothingness where nobody could bother him.

But he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. He had to get back to camp, had to tell Dutch the O’driscolls were getting bolder. He’d have to tell him the job had gone wrong because he’d been too  _ tired  _ to work fast enough. 

Arthur’s eyes flew open, his weariness overpowered by a sudden surge of sickening anxiety. He’d have to tell Dutch he failed, had to walk back into camp with nothing more to contribute to their dwindling supplies. He’d have to take another job and go through it all again. 

He felt like puking. Dutch would be furious, Arthur’s failure only adding to his stress. If he couldn’t even manage to rob an unguarded stagecoach, what use was he? Five days, always working and moving, and he still hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t come anywhere close, not if nobody had even been able to notice his efforts. 

Arthur forced himself to his feet, wobbling as he stood, reaching out to steady himself on the nearest tree trunk. He whistled for his horse, waited, panic spiking when he was only greeted by silence. 

He tried again and again, dread resurfacing as the cold night air set into his bones, his mount nowhere in sight. Arthur rubbed his eyes, craning his neck to gaze at his surroundings. He was almost certain he was close to camp, the surrounding trees looking vaguely familiar, but there was no way to know for sure. 

He couldn’t just stay here, as appealing as the option sounded. Nobody would think to look for him until the morning, if they even looked at all, and Arthur couldn’t be any more of a burden than Dutch already thought he was. 

Arthur took a step forward, the ground seeming to move with him, feeling weightless and heavy at the same time as he moved forward, on the verge of losing his balance. 

Everything hurt, but somehow he didn’t feel anything at all, his mind spiraling into an achy, numb confusion. He wasn’t even sure where he was going, terrified he was heading in the wrong direction, that he’d end up hopelessly lost, passed out on the side of the road. 

But after what felt like an eternity, the moon having risen to its full height as the cloud around him growing heavier, threatening to push him down, Arthur thought he could see smoke, flickers of light, and quiet voices. 

“Who’s there?” 

Lenny’s voice was too close, too familiar to be another hallucination, and Arthur found himself smiling in relief, trying to ignore the waves of panic he still felt at the thought of talking to Dutch. 

“I said, who’s--”

“It’s  _ me,  _ kid,” Arthur called with what little strength he had left, stumbling past, ignoring Lenny’s watching eyes. “Where’s Dutch?” 

“In his tent,” Lenny said. “Talking to Hosea...jesus, are you ok? What happened to you?” 

Arthur didn’t respond, forcing himself to keep moving forward, to straighten his back as he walked. But the numbness was beginning to fade, pain seeping back into his overworked body.

The camp was mostly quiet, deserted in the late hours, but the light in Dutch tent was on, the flap open, and he could see the two men talking inside. Arthur couldn’t make out what they were saying, their voices quiet and muffled. Or maybe his hearing was gradually shutting down as his mind continued to fail him. 

Hosea and Dutch quieted as Arthur made it to the tent, leaning heavily against the pole, struggling to find his voice. Dutch’s gaze made him freeze, made his throat close up. Until now he’d never felt fear when looking at the older man, never felt anything but trust. 

“About time,” Dutch said. “Put the camp’s share in the box. Then you can--” 

“I didn’t get it.” 

Dutch and Hosea both frowned, and the guilt became overwhelming, choking him, redeeming himself infinitely more important than sleep.

“You didn’t get the money?” Dutch asked, and Arthur swallowed, nodding. 

“O’dris...O’driscolls showed up,” he explained, talking carefully to keep his words from slurring together. “There were three of them, I couldn’t--”

“You couldn’t handle  _ three  _ O’driscoll boys?” 

“I handled them,” Arthur shot back, wincing at Dutch’s cold glare. “But I had to run when they...I-I tried to--” 

“Christ, Arthur,” Dutch muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We can’t afford to lose opportunities like that.” 

“I’ll take another job,” Arthur said. He knew he likely wouldn’t even be able to make it across camp again, but he knew Dutch didn’t care. “Whatever you need me to do. I’ll head out right now.”

Dutch sighed, running a hand over his face. “I sent Charles and Javier into town to look into something if you want to--” 

“Maybe you should wait a bit,” Hosea said, Arthur’s panic worsening when Dutch’s frown deepened. “Get some rest first. You can find something in the morning.” 

Arthur shook his head, the simple motion making him unbearably dizzy, Dutch talking before he had the chance to argue. 

“He can rest after he makes us some money. We need everyone doing their share, Hosea.” 

“And we’re all doing our best,” Hosea said. “It’s not Arthur’s fault the O’driscolls showed up. He’s had a long night, he’s probably exhausted.” 

“Everybody’s exhausted,” Dutch snapped. “I need him busy. He needs to be working. He can’t be slacking off anymore.” 

“Fuck  _ off, _ Dutch.” 

It was like the world stopped as soon as the words left Arthur’s mouth, quiet and slurred and almost indecipherable. But based on the way the two men turned to him in shock, Dutch’s eyes blazing in a newly awakened rage, Arthur knew he’d been heard. 

The fear returned with a vengeance, nearly sending him crashing to his knees, but the guilt was replaced with a sudden rush of anger. It was a testament to how out of it he was, unable to stop himself from running his mouth, finally meeting Dutch’s eyes.

“Excuse me?” 

“Have you even _looked_ in that damn box?” Arthur demanded, lightheaded, pushing himself from the pole. “You have no idea what I’ve been doing, Dutch. I haven’t slept in five _goddamn_ days!” 

The guilt returned as soon the silence fell, but the anger didn’t go away, mixing into one overpowering spiral of emotion he didn’t know how to control. 

Arthur looked to the two men, terrified of seeing pity, hoping for realization, for permission to sleep until the sun came up. Maybe even a damn apology if he was lucky. 

He didn’t expect his words to just make Dutch angrier and Hosea downright furious. 

_ “Five?  _ What’s wrong with you?” 

“Why the hell not?” 

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut when the yells aggravated his pounding head, opening them again when he began to sway, planting his feet in the grass just outside the tent. 

“Because you won’t  _ let me!” _ It was as close as he could get to screaming, his voice not nearly as loud as he’d wanted, but it was the most he could manage. “Because I’m trying to keep us alive, just like  _ you _ told me to! Because I know damn well nobody else is going to lift a finger until they have to!”

His eyes were still stinging, and it took him a moment to realize his face was wet. He furiously wiped the tears away, hating the loss of control, hating the tightening pressure around his chest. 

Through the water in his eyes, Arthur looked to Dutch, watching as the anger melted away into a surprised worry. 

“Arthur,” he said, and the worry morphed into alarm. “Ok, Arthur, it's ok. Breathe, son. Arthur, you need to breathe.”

He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped, that his breaths had turned into choking gasps and hiccups, each desperate attempt to inhale hitching painfully in his throat. 

Dutch moved to step forward, hand outstretched, but Arthur quickly backed away on unsteady feet. He half expected to be hit, or at least thrown out of camp for his outburst. 

“You’re not breathing,” Dutch said, urgently, like Arthur wasn’t painfully aware and trying with little success to fix it.  

“Arthur,” Hosea said, calmer than Dutch, but Arthur could read the older man’s panic, even through his blurring vision. “Take a breath. Please. Just calm down--is that  _ blood?”  _

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. He hadn’t been shot. He would have known if he’d gotten shot. “I’m fine, I’m fine I-I just need--I just need to--to--” 

He couldn’t breathe, his breath hitching in between desperate, panicked words, and he couldn’t stop his panic, fear and dread rising up inside of him, suffocating him, making him dizzy and sick. 

Arthur no longer had the strength to hold himself up and suddenly he was falling, preparing to slam against the ground and shatter, feeling as delicate as glass. 

But someone was catching him, hands on his back and side, voices swirling around him. Arthur squinted, just able to make out Dutch and Hosea, the men carefully guiding him to the ground, slowing his descent as best they could. 

“I’m s--I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stammered, still unable to get a breath in. “I-I’m working, I’m--Dutch, I’m trying. I swear, I  _ swear,  _ I’m trying I just..I can’t--I-I don’t--”

His pathetic attempts at breathing quickened, becoming more and more painful, dying in his chest. There was a hand on his face, moving to his forehead, smoothing back his hair. A second hand cupped the back of his head, lowering him the rest of the way to the ground. He was clutching someone's shirt as he sobbed, no longer able to tell if it was Dutch or Hosea. 

There were voices above him, none of them recognizable anymore, blurring together as they grew louder, but he didn’t care anymore. Whatever they needed him for, they could wait until morning. He couldn’t even imagine opening his eyes, couldn’t even remember how. 

The voices didn’t stop, and they only seemed to grow closer, more frantic, their panic trying to pull him back to the surface. 

But Arthur was beyond listening. He couldn’t feel anything anymore, slipping under the dark, the panic and pain fading away as he was finally allowed to sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur deserves to feel his feelings. Also wow its 2am.  
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The wind died down as the sky turned a light pink, thin gray clouds spreading across the pastel dawn, everything falling eerily still from the moment Arthur refused to wake up. 

Hosea sat in the chair at the end of Arthur’s cot, his head in his hands as he listened to the quiet breathing, shame and disgust bubbling up inside of him.  _ Five days.  _ Now that he actually thought to look, the toll those days had taken was painfully obvious.

Arthur’s face was thin, sunken and pale, cheekbones prominent, dark bags under his eyes. They were probably watery and bloodshot as well, something Hosea should have noticed long before it got this bad. It had been almost too easy to lift him from the ground where he’d collapsed, and he wondered if Arthur had gone five days without eating, too. 

“How’s he doing?” 

Hosea hadn’t even heard Dutch step inside, growing tense as the other man moved to stand behind him, eyes on the occupied bed. 

“Hosea?” 

“Why do you care?” he asked, low and quiet, still staring down at his lap. “This is your fault.”

“Hosea,” Dutch said again, strained and desperate, moving to stand in front of his chair. “I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me, I--” 

“He shouldn’t have to  _ tell  _ you,” Hosea snapped. “It’s your responsibility! You almost worked your boy to death, Dutch.”

“He was the one taking jobs,” Dutch argued. “I didn’t make him do anything before that stagecoach. That was his choice.” 

“And you didn’t even notice.” 

“Neither did you!” 

“I'm not the one treating him like a damn slave!” The last outburst stunned Dutch into silence, his face falling, but Hosea wasn’t done. “He was _terrified_ of you. You know your opinion means the world to him, and you let him believe he had to..to do...to do _this_ to himself to be worth your time!”

Arthur had nearly killed himself. Hosea couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, and he suddenly couldn’t look at the younger man’s unconscious frame. 

How could he have let it get this far? 

Hosea hadn’t even noticed the tears in his eyes until the tent grew blurry and his face began to sting. He pushed them away with his sleeve, ignoring the firm hand squeezing his shoulder. 

“We  _ let  _ this happen,” he said, feeling Dutch’s hold loosen. Hosea raised his head, eyes dropping to the tightly wound bandage around Arthur’s arm. “He almost died out there. And we wouldn’t have known.” 

“Hosea, I’m so sorry--” 

“He had a bullet in his arm, Dutch!” Hosea exploded, voice wavering under the strain as he stood. “He was bleeding out and he didn’t even  _ realize!  _ He was trying to take another job because of  _ you.”  _

There was a pause, heavy and silent, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Hosea--” 

“And you would have  _ let  _ him,” the older man snarled, finally turning to look Dutch in the eye, furious sorrow plaguing them both as the silence fell again. “Will you even care if he doesn’t wake up?” 

He might as well have stabbed Dutch in the chest, the other man taking a step back as his eyes widened, shimmering with heartbreak and unshed tears. 

“Of course I will.” Dutch’s voice was nothing more than a shocked whisper. “Jesus, Hosea, how could you...I didn’t  _ know.”  _

Hosea nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “I know you didn’t, Dutch. That’s the point.” 

“Hosea,” Dutch said again, the older man only shaking his head as he spoke. “I’m going to fix this. He’ll wake up, and I swear, I’ll--”

“Get out,” Hosea said, all venom gone, lowering himself back into the chair. Dutch stayed where he was, silent. “You need to go. I’ll tell you if there’s any change just...just get out. Please.”

Dutch didn’t move and Hosea glanced at him, the other man shaking his head, looking almost panicked. “I’m staying. I’m...I can’t...he’s my--” 

“You keep saying he’s like a son to you,” Hosea said. “So start acting like a goddamn father.”

“I--” 

“Get the hell  _ away _ from him, Van der Linde!” 

There were no more arguments after that, nothing left for Dutch to say, nothing for him to do but turn and disappear through the flap of the tent. 

  
  


Arthur slept for over a day, still and unresponsive, threatening to send Hosea into an inconsolable panic as the younger man continued to waste away. 

Miss Grimshaw made constant appearances, fretting over Arthur’s bandage, running a hand over his forehead, flashing worried glances to Hosea, the woman’s own guilt practically radiating off her. 

“It’s not your fault, Susan,” Hosea said, knowing his words were meaningless. The same had been said to him, the assurance having little effect. Miss Grimshaw pursed her lips, adjusting Arthur’s blanket. 

“I should have noticed.” 

“We  _ all  _ should have noticed,” Hosea argued gently. “But you were just doing your job. I’m the one who...who didn’t...Jesus, you should have heard him. Collapsing to the ground and goddamn  _ apologizing  _ for not working hard enough.” 

“I’ll never forgive myself,” Miss Grimshaw said, finally stepping away from the cot. “If he doesn’t pull through, I won’t...Mr. Matthews, I wouldn’t let him  _ sleep,  _ I-I didn’t know he was--” 

“He’ll be ok,” Hosea said. “It’s just...what comes after that’s worrying me.” 

Miss Grimshaw scoffed. “He even thinks about getting out of bed and I’ll give the boy a beating he won’t forget.” 

Hosea allowed himself to smile, heart heavy, praying it would turn out to be so simple. He’d seen the look in Arthur’s eyes, the frantic need to do more, like he had some need to prove himself, the fear of failure when he’d been too weak to keep himself standing. 

He’d never heard Arthur so upset, so angry or scared, the built-up guilt and exhaustion finally breaking him, shattering his control. 

Thank god he’d managed to say something. 

There was suddenly quiet noises from the cot, Hosea and Miss Grimshaw turning as Arthur stirred, furrowing his brow, the most movement they’d seen in days. 

“Arthur?” Hosea called softly, leaving his chair to crouch beside the pillow, watching as Arthur’s breathing began to pick up. Miss Grimshaw stayed where she was, wringing her hands, waiting intently.  

It took too long, Hosea struggling to remain patient, to hold back his panic. But finally,  _ finally,  _ Arthur’s eyes began to open, taking a moment to focus on the face in front of him. 

“H...Hosea?” 

“Welcome back, Arthur,” Hosea said, moving to rest a hand on the younger man’s chest. “You scared us, son. You alright?” 

Arthur blinked, slow and sluggish, and suddenly his eyes were flying open in panic, groaning as he tried to push himself up, body wracked with shivers. 

“Arthur,” Hosea tried, frowning when he only fought harder, Miss Grimshaw moving to help hold him in place. “Arthur! It’s just us, you’re ok. Lay back down. Lay down.”  

Arthur shook his head, wrapping a hand around Hosea’s wrist. His eyes were searching widely, eventually gluing themselves to the tent’s exit. 

“I-I can’t,” he said, the weakness of his voice making Hosea flinch. “I-I have...I have to--” 

“No, Arthur,” Hosea said, forcing a smile through the dread. “You’re ok. Everything’s fine, alright? You can relax, I promise. Lay back down, son.” 

“But I--” 

“You’re sick, Arthur,” Hosea tried to explain. “I need you to relax. Please, just lay down. You’ll be ok.” 

He was barely awake, hardly coherent, and already panicking, trying to get up and get back to work. Hosea had to push back his sorrow, ignoring his rising anger, focusing instead on guiding Arthur back down to the pillow. 

His gaze dropped to the bandage on his arm, hissing in pain when he tried to move. Arthur looked back to Hosea, visibly confused. 

“It’s not that bad,” Hosea promised, knowing the healing bullet wound was the least of their worries. “You’re...you’re pretty messed up, but a few days rest and you’ll be just fine.” 

Arthur swallowed, the words seeming to do very little to set him at ease.  “I...I have to help, I can’t--” 

“You  _ can,  _ Arthur,” Hosea assured. “You’ve done enough. You can rest.” 

Miss Grimshaw was approaching with a glass of water, smiling sadly, unable to meet the younger man’s eyes. Hosea lifted Arthur’s head, helping him sit up as he drank for the first time in days. 

“There you go,” he said, guiding him back down. “Next time you’re working this hard, you  _ tell  _ me. Alright?” 

Arthur didn’t meet his eyes, staring straight ahead, expression blank. “I...I tried to tell you, Hosea.” 

Hosea froze, hands trembling above Arthur’s shoulders, nodding sadly as the day of the stagecoach job came back to him. No wonder Arthur had taken so long to speak up. The one time he’d tried, visibly uncomfortable with taking another job, he’d been ignored, cast aside, written off as lazy and thrown into more work. 

“I know,” Hosea said. Defending himself was pointless, he deserved every bit of guilt he was feeling. “I know, Arthur, I’m so sorry I...it won’t happen again. We’re not going to let it, understand me?” 

Arthur took a moment to respond, giving no signs of forgiveness. Not that Hosea deserved any. “Ok.” 

“I mean it,” he pushed. “You ain’t a workhorse, Arthur.”

“Ok, Hosea.” 

“You  _ ain’t.”  _ Hosea paused, just barely stopping himself from raising his voice. “What happened was...it’s...it’s never going to happen again. Never. There’s no excuse for what happened. We should have realized how much you were... _ I  _ should have realized. And I’m so  _ so  _ sorry.”

Arthur met his eyes, gaze watery and distant. He gave a small nod, saying nothing, and Hosea’s heart lurched at how frail he looked. 

“Mr. Matthews, why don't you go get him some food?” Miss Grimshaw suggested. She’d been so quiet, Hosea had almost forgotten she was there. “I’ll stay with him a moment.” 

Hosea heard the unspoken words, recognized the need in her eyes, and nodded. Her guilt was just as bad as his, Miss Grimshaw had been just as oblivious as everyone else. 

“I’ll be right back, Arthur,” Hosea said, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder as he stood, frowning at the lack of response. “Just try and rest.”

He stood, limbs sore and achy from how long he’d been sitting, reluctantly turning his back to the cot and ducking into the late morning air, hearing Miss Grimshaw talk softly behind him. 

As soon as he stepped outside, Hosea could feel countless eyes on him, desperately waiting for answers. Most had been asleep when Arthur had collapsed, but judging by the sad, hesitant glances towards the quiet tent, Hosea was sure word had traveled fast. 

Dutch was seated at the table in the middle of camp, alone, hunched over a mug of steaming coffee. He looked awful, disheveled and exhausted, and Hosea was sure he didn’t look much better. They hadn’t spoken, but he knew neither of them had slept, couldn’t even if they wanted to. 

Dutch’s head snapped up as soon as he heard Hosea’s footsteps, pushing himself to his feet. “How is he?” 

Hosea ignored the question, pretended he wasn’t there, moving around him to the steaming, untouched pot of Pearson’s stew. They clearly weren’t the only ones without an appetite.  

“Is he awake?” Dutch demanded, matching Hosea’s brisk pace, growing more and more frantic when his question wasn't answered. “For god’s sake, is he awake or not?” 

Hosea sighed, taking one of the bowls, trying not to focus on the way his hands shook. “Barely. I need to try and get him to eat.” 

Hosea filled the bowl, Dutch hovering anxiously, waiting for more. Hosea simply turned back to the tent and started forward. 

“Can I see him?” he asked. Hosea stopped, biting his lip as he finally turned to look at Dutch. The man was a mess, consumed with guilt and worry and fear, and Hosea knew exactly how he felt. 

“No.” 

“Hosea, please--” 

“Not yet,” Hosea corrected, recognizing the desperation. “It’s not a good idea right now, Dutch. He just needs some time.” 

“I don’t know what everyone’s so worried about.” 

Hosea bristled, feeling a familiar presence move up to stand beside him, Micah watching the exchange with a small smile. Dutch turned to the other man, eyebrows raised, and Hosea felt bile rise in his throat. 

“He almost  _ died, _ Mr. Bell,” Hosea reminded him, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying more. He wished he’d have let Arthur knock some sense into him when he had the chance. 

“And from what _ I _ hear,” Micah mocked, making Hosea clench his jaw with his usual snively voice and cocky attitude. “That’s his own fault. Look, if Arthur’s too weak to handle a bit of work--” 

He didn’t get to finish, his words cut off by the sickening crack of bone. 

Micah stumbled backwards, pressing a hand to his bloody nose, looking up in disbelief to a fuming Dutch, bruised fist held at his side. 

“What the  _ hell?”  _

Dutch didn’t grace him with a response, grabbing his forearm and roughly yanking him forward, dragging him across camp. 

“Strauss!” he called, booming voice earning him a few glances from curious onlookers. Strauss scurried out of his tent, notepad in hand, watching in alarm as Dutch practically threw a speechless Micah forward. “Put Micah to work. Anything you need done, just keep him out of my sight.” 

“I don’t--” 

“Don’t make me hit you again,” Dutch snarled, and Hosea couldn’t help but smile at the way Micah instantly fell silent. “I don’t want to see or hear you until you get off your ass and make us some goddamn money for once.” 

Micah said nothing, eyes dark and cold, but he turned to a shaken Strauss without question, shoulders hunched. Dutch started back towards Hosea, paused, and spun back around. 

“Micah,” he called, the other man glancing over his shoulder. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for Arthur. So shut your mouth and stay the hell away from him.” 

Hosea watched, incredulous, as Dutch stormed back to his side, his anger already rapidly fading, like the air from Arthur’s tent was sucking it all away. Hosea nodded, and the other man dared to look hopeful. 

“Alright,” he relented, pulling back the flap and slipping inside, voice quiet. “But stay back. Just for now.” 

Dutch nodded, no longer powerful and in control, following Hosea’s lead. 

Miss Grimshaw was still crouched by Arthur’s bed, brushing her hair out of her face as she stood, watching Dutch curiously. 

“Everything alright out there?” she asked. 

“Fine,” Dutch said. “How is he?” 

Arthur’s eyes were closed again, head lolled against the pillow, slack and unresponsive once again. Miss Grimshaw could only shrug, watching as Hosea came closer, bowl of stew in hand. 

“He was talking a little bit,” she explained. If she was hastily wiping away tears, Hosea said nothing. “But he...he drifted off pretty fast. I didn’t want to stop him.” 

Hosea nodded, lowering himself to the side of Arthur’s bed, balancing the bowl against his leg, leaving his hand to hover over Arthur’s chest, rising and falling in peaceful breaths. 

It felt like a crime to wake him, blasphemous, undoing any progress they’d tried so hard to make. But he was too thin, too sickly looking, and letting him starve would only make everything worse in the end. 

“Hey,” he said, lowering his hand. “Arthur, wake up.” 

The reaction was immediate, Arthur jolting awake with a gasp, once again struggling to sit up, shoving the blankets away as his eyes widened. 

“S-sorry,” Arthur said, quiet and scared, Hosea hating his blatant, delirious panic. “Sorry, I wasn't--I was just--”

“It’s ok,” he said, pushing back Arthur’s hair, swallowing against the heavy lump in his throat.  “You’re ok, Arthur, you can go back to sleep in a minute. We just want you to have something to eat.”

Arthur’s breathing wasn’t slowing, painfully reminding Hosea of the earlier attack caused by blood loss and panic. The younger man’s eyes landed on the stew, and he quickly shook his head. 

“Please, Arthur,” Hosea begged. “You need to eat.” 

Arthur shook his head again, swallowing, looking almost wary as he glanced around the dim tent. 

“I shouldn’t--” he started, breaking off with a weak cough. “Pearson doesn’t...there isn’t enough--” 

Hosea opened his mouth to ask again, to keep begging, but before he could, there was another presence at his side, another hand on Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Everybody’s already eaten,” Dutch said, and Hosea suddenly realized that was exactly what Arthur needed to hear. “You brought back enough, remember? You did good, you did so good, Arthur. Have something to eat and go back to sleep, ok?” 

It seemed to get through to Arthur, something calming in his gaze when he understood he wasn’t being punished, that his exhaustion was being recognized. 

Eating was a slow process, Arthur’s hands trembling slightly as he lifted the spoon, visibly struggling to keep his eyes open. Hosea kept a hand on the back of his neck, talking quietly to keep him awake, Dutch silently watching a few paces away. 

The bowl was eventually emptied, and Arthur seemed to lose what little energy he’d managed, instantly sinking back against his pillow, eyes slipping shut. 

“Get some sleep, Arthur,” Dutch said, and Hosea pretended not to notice how red the man’s eyes had become. “You’ve earned it.”

  
  
  


Arthur woke slowly, gradually letting the gentle light seep into his eyes from the open sliver of his tent, sighing as he began to come back to the world on his own terms. 

They’d finally let him sleep through the night. The repercussions it would bring would no doubt rival the work he’d already done, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt rested, albeit slightly achy and drowsy, and he’d almost forgotten how that felt. 

Arthur pushed himself up, the blanket falling away, hissing when fire shot up his arm. There was a bandage spreading from his wrist to his elbow, seemingly freshly changed, and he frowned, pressing down against the sore wound. 

There had been the stagecoach job...had he been shot? In that awful state, he wouldn’t have put it past himself to not notice. He vaguely remembered talking to Dutch and Hosea, raising his voice, pent up frustration finally spilling out. 

He froze, suddenly remembering what he’d said, and his blood ran cold. Dutch was going to  _ kill  _ him. Maybe if he laid back down, he could fall asleep forever. 

But waiting would only make it worse, only make Dutch angrier. He sighed, running a hand over his face, quietly relieved when he no longer swayed when he stood. 

It was late morning, the day warm and quiet, the familiar bustling sounds of camp creating a quiet lull as he stepped outside, squinting against the sunlight. 

Arthur started forward, aware of the eyes on him, simple glances, small smiles, and quiet greetings. Micah was nowhere in sight, and Arthur counted that as a blessing. If the other man were here, he’d no doubt be waiting to see Arthur’s punishment first hand.  

Dutch was in his tent, leaned back in his cot with a book. Arthur swallowed, gathered his courage, and started forward. He opened his mouth to call out, closing it again when Dutch saw him first, grinning as Arthur stepped inside. 

“Dutch, I’m--” 

“How’re you feeling?” The question, earnest and concerned, caught Arthur off guard, and he rubbed absently at his bandaged arm. 

“Fine,” he said, not sure how else to answer. “I think I just...needed the sleep. Look, I’m...I’m really sorry, Dutch.” 

He watched in alarm as Dutch’s face fell, the apology only seeming to make everything worse. “You’re  _ sorry?”  _

Arthur nodded, speaking carefully, wondering how he could have already messed this up so badly. “For, uh, messing up that job. And for what I said last night. To you and Hosea, I shouldn’t have--” 

Dutch shook his head, visibly upset, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to crawl back in bed and disappear. Dutch motioned to the chair on the other side of the tent, and Arthur reluctantly obeyed, sitting to face the other man. 

Dutch watched him, setting his book aside. He looked drained and exhausted, Arthur suddenly wondering just how much damage he’d managed to do.  

“Arthur,” he said, softly, almost like he was speaking to a scared child. “You were asleep for over two days.” 

It felt like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over his head, the lethargic wakening screeching to a halt. No wonder he felt so much better. And no wonder Dutch looked so tired. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Dutch, I’m...I was working and I...I was trying to...I don’t know how I--” 

“Arthur, it’s  _ ok.”  _ Dutch smiled, no anger or accusation in his eyes. “You needed it.”

“But the stagecoach--” 

“Was  _ my  _ fault,” Dutch said, and Arthur briefly wondered if he was dreaming. “Arthur I didn’t know...Christ, five  _ days?  _ You were working for five days?” 

Arthur looked down at his lap, nodded, feeling the returning shame eat away at him, along with the memories of how sickeningly horrible he had felt. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t--” 

“Arthur, stop apologizing,” Dutch said, and he quickly fell silent. “Please, just stop. We...we  _ all  _ worked you too hard but I should have realized. You were trying to tell me and I didn’t  _ listen.”  _

Arthur shrugged, remembering the frustration and helplessness as he’d been sent out once again, a part of him knowing something was destined to go wrong, how he had been too weak and nobody had cared. 

“It’s ok.” 

“No, it’s not,” Dutch argued. “It ain’t right, and it ain’t fair to you. Not after everything you’ve done. And I know we’re all stressed and...and distracted, and of course I  _ need  _ you but you almost...” he trailed off, lingering in the pause. Arthur risked a glance up, meeting distressed, ashamed eyes. It wasn’t a look he was used to seeing on Dutch. “I almost killed you, Arthur.” 

Arthur wanted to argue, to brush it off a simple mistake, to carry on like he usually did. But he couldn’t, because it was true. He’d almost been worked to death, and nobody had bothered to notice until he’d broken apart. 

He’d been angry, he’d been hurt, and he’d still been willing to do whatever they needed no matter how close he was to the edge. 

“I’m so sorry, son.” 

The words unraveled something in him, let something loose. Arthur nodded, letting out a shuddering breath. “It...it wasn’t great. I didn’t...nobody listened.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dutch said again, genuine, his words continuing to loosen Arthur’s chest. “I really am. Hosea and I...you’re like a son to us, but sometimes I...I just…” 

“I understand,” Arthur said. He’d never met a man better with words than Dutch, but sometimes he didn’t need to say anything. Not to his family. “Thank you.” 

Dutch shook his head. “Don’t thank me. And don’t forgive me, not yet. What I did was horrible, but I’m going to make it right. This ain’t happening again, son. I won’t let it.” 

Arthur nodded and let his shoulders drop, wondering if his relief was as obvious as he thought it was. Dutch, seemingly satisfied, stood and offered his hand to him. 

“Let’s go get you some food,” he said. “Some  _ real  _ food. You need to eat, you damn fool. Regularly from now on. And then we’ll talk about setting you up in a hotel room for a few nights.” 

Arthur accepted his hand, trying to push away how appealing a real bed beside a warm fire sounded.

“Dutch, we don’t need to--” 

_ “You _ need it,” the other man said firmly, but there was a hint of worry, his panic resurfacing at seeing Arthur’s lingering weakness. “Hell, if anyone here deserves it, it’s you. You know that. And don’t tell me you haven't been dying to get away from these folks.” 

Arthur found himself smiling, realizing Dutch was right, and he suddenly didn’t have it in him to argue, following Dutch outside. “I guess you’re right.” 

There was a hand on his back, leading him forward in the painfully slow pace that was comfortable for his healing body. Dutch paused, inches from the edge of the tent, Arthur waiting in silence. 

“Thank you, son,” he said, his other hand squeezing Arthur’s uninjured arm. “For still being by my side. I know things are...things are tough right now but...but I appreciate it. I really do.”

Arthur, with nothing left to say, nodded again, the only way he could explain that he understood, that it wasn’t ok yet, but it would be. 

They left the tent, Dutch’s hand still on his back, steadying him, guiding him towards the hitching post. Arthur knew he could ride by himself, and without the stress of a new job looming over him, he knew the ride into town would do more good than bad. 

He caught Hosea’s eyes from across camp, the older man seated at the table, newspaper and a cup of coffee in his lap. He gave a knowing smile, eyes reassuring, letting Arthur continue without another word. 

Everything he needed to hear had already been said, but the two of them would have a long overdue talk when Arthur was ready, Hosea content to wait patiently until he was ready to return to the waking world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!! This one was a bit shorter, but I really loved writing it and I hope you enjoyed!  
> It's been a little while since I've done requests, so please leave any ideas for Arthur whump in the comments! I've loved the ones I've seen before, and I'm in need of some good ideas!  
> Thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> We can thank my messed up sleep schedule for this idea lol. I didn't want to start anything too long this week, so this story is going to be fairly short.  
> Thank you for reading!!


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